


Paved With Stars

by Hope4Tomorrow



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens) is Not Crowley (Supernatural), Multi, Our favorite angel/demon duo does what they do best, aka are adorable and technically very bad at their jobs, and also throw as many wrenches as possible in any apocalyptic plans they encounter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-12-28 02:48:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21129512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope4Tomorrow/pseuds/Hope4Tomorrow
Summary: It was a morning was much like any other September morning in this particular cottage for nearly the last decade.Or it had been."'Once more unto the breach, dear friend'?"





	1. Prologue

On September eighteenth, Anno Domini two thousand and eight, two man-shaped beings sat at the kitchen table in their cottage in South Downs. One - tall and lanky and clad comfortably in a black silk dressing gown - was reading the morning paper with his feet kicked up on the table. The other - quite his companion's opposite and even fully dressed in a smart (if aged) cream waistcoat and tartan bowtie - sat primly in his chair, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, smiling out the window at the active bird feeder.

The window was open, and birdsong nearly drowned out the ticking of the old grandfather clock and the gentle settling of the gas stove as it cooled. The steam wafting from the fresh cup of tea smelled spicy and warm, hinting at the first breath of autumn. Early morning sunbeams pooled at the birdwatcher's feet in softly rippling gold and red and green from where they fell through the pane of stained glass in the window's upper sash. The darker figure glanced over the top of his newspaper and his lips curled in fond amusement; the sun backlighting his companion's head gave the impression of a shining halo resting atop the short, blond curls.

Peace and contentment enveloped the little cottage and the two beings inside it like a favorite cardigan or a hug from a dear friend.

It was a morning much like any other morning that week, and in fact, much like any other September morning in this particular cottage for nearly the last decade.

Or it was, until something that no one else in the vicinity could see or hear or feel jolted through the very quarks of reality, and both man-shaped beings stiffened abruptly. The birdwatcher turned to his companion, who had lowered his newspaper, and their eyes met, all very, very wide.

"Oh dear," said the smaller figure, weakly, and quite suddenly the little cottage seemed far less warm and safe.

"...Indeed," said his companion.

"I suppose," said the first, "we always knew they'd start it again..."

"Just... thought we'd have a bit more time first, yeah," the second finished, removing his feet from the table and unfolding somewhat from his slouch.

"Right," his companion agreed. Then he took a deep, bracing sip of tea and a deep, bracing (and, strictly speaking, unnecessary) breath. "Right. Well, my dear, I suppose we ought to get going. I'll pack my books, and give Marjorie a call - see if she won't look after the cottage for us, while we're away."

The other laid his newspaper aside, humming in agreement, and leaned forward intently. "Aziraphale, were you able to pinpoint that? I only made it as far as the midwestern United States."

Aziraphale nodded, swallowed the last of his tea, and set the empty cup gently on the table beside the newspaper. "Illinois," he said. "Center of the northeastern quadrant of the state." He grimaced, and added plaintively, "Crowley, do we _really_ have to go to _America_? The food is..."

Crowley chuckled. "Think of it this way, angel: when we get back, you'll get to approach your old favorites with a whole new appreciation."

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but smiled, amused at first despite himself, and then wistful. "'Once more unto the breach, dear friend'?"

Crowley snorted softly. "'Once more.' We could still go to Alpha Centuri, you know."

Aziraphale's smile deepened. "After all the effort we've put into this place?" Then he gave a tiny sigh, sobering. "It feels different this time. Do you know, Crowley... I think you may have had the right of it, what you said back then. About the sides."

"Heaven and Hell against humanity?" Crowley's teeth flashed in a sardonic grin as he pushed back his chair and flung himself to his feet. "Good thing they've got us!"

The angel gazed searchingly into the demon's face, then gave him a smile that was part pride, part grief, and wholly tender. "Good thing they've got us," he agreed.


	2. Tried and True

Sometime around what could be vaguely described as eleven in the morning on September eighteenth according to the current subjective time zone, a baggage handler performing a final check of the cargo hold of a particular British Airways plane found a perfectly preserved antique Bentley automobile parked neatly in a back corner 1. Its rear seat appeared to be stuffed to the brim with crates of equally antique (and equally preserved) books.

The baggage handler stared at the vehicle for quite some time, and wondered to himself how in heaven's name a car had not only climbed the steep, narrow set of rolling steps pulled up to the side of the plane, but squeezed itself through the loading door that was _definitely_ narrower than the car, all without being noticed by any of the baggage staff.

He glanced down at the clipboard in his hand. As he suspected, the Bentley was not mentioned on any of the very official-looking papers - neither in the tidy font of the office printer nor in the handwritten notes scrawled in the margins. The baggage handler frowned at the vehicle one more time, then turned away, flipping over another page on the clipboard to run his finger down another list, trying to figure out exactly who he ought to report this to.

When he got to the loading door, he closed and latched it carefully behind him and waved his clipboard cheerfully at his supervisor. "All clear!" he declared, Bentley completely forgotten.

Sometime around what could be vaguely described as three in the afternoon of the same day according to the new subjective time zone, almost the exact same process was repeated somewhat in reverse at the receiving airport in Chicago, Illinois, United States of America, except that when _this_ baggage handler turned his back on the vintage automobile for a moment, it was quite abruptly no longer in the hold of the airplane. In fact, it was quite abruptly parked at the ready just outside the airport's front doors, engine idling happily.

The baggage handler blinked, shook his head, blinked again, and then returned to the task at hand. When he called his London-based cousin later that week, they had quite a long conversation about the stresses of the job and how nice it would be to retire sometime in the next few years, although neither of them could ever quite remember how the topic came up.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale and Crowley were well on their way out of the city and onto the southbound highway 2. Here, much closer to 'ground zero' (as Crowley was calling it), it was almost easy to follow the lingering traces of the energy blast that both beings knew could only have been caused by one thing.

And sure enough, some hours later, one technically fallen angel, one technically unfallen angel, and one neither fallen nor unfallen vintage Bentley 3 stood in what used to be a forest and stared 4 down into the dimness of a six-foot-deep hole.

The Righteous Man had been pulled from Hell.

The entire area for three surrounding square miles was utterly deserted apart from themselves - not so much as a late summer cricket chirped beyond the ring of felled trees. Echoes of the power that had been displayed here pressed down on the observers like an ocean depth, thick and cold and suffocating, vast amounts of spent angelic Grace permeated with the burnt, sulphuric aftertaste of Hell.

Aziraphale shuddered. Crowley, pressed close against his side, extended one metaphysical wing and enveloped his companion, shielding him from the worst of the sensation. 5

"We're too close here," Crowley said after several long moments of contemplative silence. "Dunno about you, angel, but my senses are being swamped."

Aziraphale nodded slowly. "Go back into town, consider our next move over dinner?"

"Mm," agreed Crowley, giving the dark pit one last sidelong glance before whirling away back towards his car. "Saw a diner on our way through that looked passable," he added, holding the passenger door for the angel.

Aziraphale beamed at him and slid into the seat.

With a few miles and a hot meal between them and 'ground zero', it was easier to stretch their senses and explore the area in ways humans never could. Even so, it was only a few seconds before Aziraphale huffed softly and laid aside the fork he'd been absently twirling in favor of rubbing at his brow.

"I'm out of practice," he admitted, grimacing. "Thought I had something for a minute there, but..."

Crowley shook his head, staring off into the middle distance, one finger absently tapping the edge of his unused plate. "Hngh. Nah. I've got it."

"Really?"

"Hngh," he said again. "...Blergh." With a brief shudder, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Couple blocks that way. That motel we passed, if I had to guess. I've got a proper fix on it, now; shouldn't be hard to track down."

"Well done!" Aziraphale declared delightedly, and he rose at the same time as Crowley, looping a hand through the proffered elbow and not commenting on the generous tip the demon tucked under his plate. 6

Despite that initial spurt of bravado, however, when they pulled into an empty parking space outside what Crowley swore (and Aziraphale had to agree) was the correct motel room, they stayed in the car, eyeing each other in trepidation. It was one thing to declare their intent to get involved in this new apocalypse, even to come all the way to America and track down the spot where it all began, but...

They'd spent the last couple millenia hiding their less than enmitous relationship. And then, last time, they'd gotten _involved_, they'd gotten _noticed_, and it had almost cost them... It had almost cost them everything. They'd spent the last decade avoiding all contact with what used to be their respective sides, staying out of the way, laying low, keeping miracles to a minimum. Doing everything in their power to _not_ draw the attention - rekindle the ire - of Heaven and Hell; to avoid a repeat of what had left them on edge and unwilling to let each other out of sight for years.

The tricks that saved them last time weren't guaranteed to work again.

If they chose, now, to get out of the car and face whatever lay beyond that motel room door, there would be no going back. There would be no more safe little cottage; no more being left alone in their own little corner of the world. Not unless they finished this. Not unless _they_ won.

And if they didn't...

So, for a long time, an angel who was just enough of a bastard and a demon who was a little bit of a good person sat in the front seats of a vintage Bentley that had once driven through hellfire to the end of the world, and they stared at each other, not saying a word.

What were words to beings who could communicate on levels beyond human understanding?

What were words to anyone who knew each other as deeply as six thousand years?

Finally, the angel reached over and briefly grasped the demon's hand. Then, simultaneously, they pushed open their doors, pushed to their feet, and approached the motel.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(1) Taking the Bentley had been Aziraphale's idea; he certainly didn't know how to drive those modern American machines, and he highly suspected that they would rather baffle Crowley as well, when they didn't (rather sentiently) respond to his every absent-minded whim. Back

(2) Seeing as customs checks were something that happened to 'other people', and despite a few moments of panic (on Aziraphale's part, at least) when Crowley forgot that Americans drive on the wrong side of the road. Back

(3) Not that it could have been either even if it had wanted to be; it was, after all, not an angel, nor even (technically, so far as anyone else was aware) any other sort of living being. Back

(4) Metaphorically speaking, in the case of the Bentley. Back

(5) It was ironic, and almost hypocritical; the two of them, angel and demon, had spent so long together that they should have been used to the paradoxical, nigh-blasphemous scent-taste-texture of mingled Heaven and Hell. 

But that was different. This was different. Because neither of them were quite what they had been, eons ago, and six thousand years spent on Earth had tempered them until what once felt-smelled-tasted like Heaven was now much more like cocoa and parchment and sunbeams and what once was Hell now carried more of soil and leather and rain, and _together_ was warm and safe and nothing at all like this mess, which smelt of pain and desperation and _wrongwrongwrong_. Back

(6) Aziraphale never commented on the little things Crowley did (he knew how uncomfortable it made the demon), but every time, his face would almost literally shine with pride and approval, and Crowley would make a show of rolling his eyes and hunching his shoulders grumpily while allowing the tattered, starved thing that was once his Grace to savor the affection rolling off his angel. He never got tired of it - never stopped marveling over it - and could never quite stop the adoring smile that worked its way across his face when Aziraphale's back was turned. Aziraphale knew, of course, and therefore never commented.

*This particular incident was observed by both the waitress and a middle-aged woman in the corner booth. The waitress immediately 'accidentally' spilled a rather copious amount of salt on the food she was taking to the older woman, who was watching the rediculously sweet couple leave with a disgusted sneer. Back


End file.
